You Don't Know Jack!
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has meet his match, and it's his own two year old. Sort of follows The Great Holmes Baby Derby. Established Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was parked in his chair in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, eyes darting about the room following a curly haired blur as it darted about and trying to figure out how he been reduced to this state. The two year with the dark curls and the big brown eyes stopped at his knees and looked up at him questioningly, "What's the matter, Daddy? Aren't you having fun?"

Ah, yes! Now I remember, he thought with a smile, he has Molly's eyes. I never could resist Molly's eyes.

His son, unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view and the time of day, had his father's, and mother's, intelligence. He was inquisitive, active, and mischievous. He loved making Mommy smile and Daddy scowl. At least, that was how it always seemed to Sherlock.

"John Mycroft Holmes, what are you doing with Billy?' his father asked him as the child gleefully poked his fingers through the eye sockets of the old skull, which he had somehow removed, once again, from the mantle.

"Do I have one of these things inside my head, Daddy?"

"Yes, Jack, everybody has one. Perhaps Mommy will let you see a fresh one next time she takes you to work."

"Does Mommy have have one of these ugly things in her head?"

"Yes, I told you everybody has one," Sherlock explained, knocking on his own head. "Hear it?"

"Knock harder, Daddy, I can't hear." Sherlock knocked harder. "Harder, pleeeease." Sherlock knocked on his head harder and harder until he finally caught on to was the kid was doing. "I wish you took more after your mother, Spawn!"

Jack took another long look at Billy the Skull, and made a distasteful face. "I bet Mommy's skull is prettier!"

"No doubt!"

Jack took off again, heading through the door. "Where are you going?", his concerned father asked. "To my room to get my sword!" This could be trouble. Jack had John Watson's old room, which was through the door and up a flight of stairs. Not the most ideal arrangement, but Sherlock had made arrangements with Mrs. Hudson, and renovations were currently being made to allow considerably more room for a growing family. Additional family bedrooms and a bath were being added upstairs, while Sherlock's experiments had already been moved to the empty flat downstairs. Molly had demanded this after she caught their son calmly sitting in his high chair, picking his nose, as two year olds are wont to do. However, he was using a cadaver finger to accomplish the task.

Sherlock watched as the lad climbed the stairs, holding on to the rungs of the railing as he went. Getting down was much more fun. Sherlock, ever the innovator, had commissioned one of his homeless network to build a long slide, which hugged the wall from the upper landing to the landing in front of the flat. But Jack had recently progressed from sliding down on his bum, to placing a small tea towel under his feet, and whisking down in an upright position, usually brandishing his toy sword. Naturally, additional padding had been required at the landing sight.

Sherlock snatched up the boy as he was about to pound into the wall, even though said wall was more than sufficiently cushioned. The detective carried his son back to the sitting room. He would prefer that the child keep to this room, as he could easily survey it from his favorite chair. He had toyed with the idea of installing a large eye bolt in the ceiling, and securing a tether and harness for the boy, so as to limit his access to a specific circumference of space. But his wife had vetoed the idea, pointing out the Jack was an inquisitive child, not a dog, and should not, therefore, be kept on a leash. Before he could say another word, she had pointed an angry finger at his face and practically screamed, "No shock training collar, Sherlock!" Another idea shot down. Maybe she would approve of a bungee cord, so he could just bounce about. Surely that would amuse him!

Sherlock picked up his mobile to text his best friend.

CAN I BORROW CLAIRE? - SH

Claire was the Watson's blue eyed, blonde haired daughter, and Jack, a definite ladies man in the making, absolutely adored her. He would sit mesmerized by her, quietly listening to her babble on about her latest doll acquisition. At the moment, quiet was what Sherlock needed.

I WOULD LOVE TO LEND YOU MY DAUGHTER AS I AM SICK TO DEATH OF HEARING ABOUT THE LATEST BARBIE, BUT SHE'S CURRENTLY OUT SHOPPING WITH HER MOTHER. YOU MUST LEARN TO CONTROL YOU OWN KID. - JW

LIKE YOU DID? - SH

POINT TAKEN. HOW DID WE COME TO THIS POINT, MATE ? - JW

I BLAME IT ON HORMONES, AND 2 VERY DETERMINED WOMEN - SH

By the time Sherlock had finished this exchange, Jack had gone into his parents' bedroom and confiscated a large number of Molly's bras and panties, and was now playing a ring toss game, using the horns of the steer head hanging on the wall as a target. At least he's quiet, thought Sherlock, but I doubt Molly will appreciate his taste in interior decor. She may be right, he mused, the lacy underthings certainly looked better on Molly! He was brought out of his reverie by the ringtone of his mobile, signalling a call from his mother.

"Yes, Mummy"

"How's my little boy?"

"I'm fine, Mummy."

Violet Holmes chuckled with amusement, "Not you, you git! My grandson!"

"Currently driving your little boy crazy," Sherlock responded, not yet willing to give retire the title.

"You deserve it, after what you boys put me through. How many times did I tell you that I hoped one day you'd have a child just like you!"

"I think there's been a mixup. As I remember it, I was a perfect child. I think I got Mycroft's!"

"Speaking of which, did you ever tell little Si about Redbeard?" Siger Sherlock Holmes being the son of Mycroft Holmes and his wife Anthea.

Redbeard was Sherlock's beloved childhood pet, an Irish setter, whom he adored. "Of course I did. I've told the boys lots of stories about Redbeard."

"Well, that may explain why your nephew painted his new puppy red! Anthea was not amused. The poor thing is now hiding out at the country house, until his hair grows out. It seems that even Mycroft, "low level" civil servant that he is, fears the wrath of the R.S.P.C.A.!"

"Well, it's his fault. He should have gotten an Irish Setter to begin with, instead of one of those poncy little corgis! Who's he trying to impress?"

"Sherlock, luv, Her Majesty gave him the puppy."

"My point! She could certainly have afforded a decent dog!" Attempting to change the subject, Violet asked, "How's Jack getting along with the cat?"

"Toby is currently in cat prison, serving an indeterminate term, due to no fault of his own."

"Good heavens, Sherlock, what happened?"

"Jack bit him. He said he wanted to see if he tasted like chicken. Something he may have heard on one of those dull 'man against the wilderness' shows on the telly. We had to take him to the vet. He needed stitches, and antibiotics. Believe me, Mummy, I too, have learned to fear the wrath of the R.S.P.C.A.!"

"Oh my god, Sherlock, what did the child say about that?" Violet Holmes was now laughing, almost hysterically.

"He calmly informed us that Toby definitely did not taste like chicken!" Sherlock extricated himself from the conversation, saying through his mother's laughter, "Have to go now, Mummy. Jack is picking the lock on Toby's cage, and the damned cat looks terrified."

Sherlock snatched the boy away from the cage containing the howling, hissing feline, and plopped him down on his lap. "Where did you find Daddy's lock picks? I've been looking for these for days and…"

He was interrupted by the child's happy squeal of "Mommy!", as Molly waddled into the room, and plopped her unusually large girth down on the nearest soft surface. She turned to smile at the two men in her life, and rested her hands on her large belly. "Your sister's been giving me hell all day, Jack. I hope you've been good for Daddy."

"'Course I have," the child beamed innocently at his mother while his father rolled his eyes. She quickly surveyed the room, her glance stopping on the festooned steer skull. "Your aim is getting much better, luv!" Then, to her husband, "How's Toby?"

"A bit shaken, but relatively unscathed."

"I really don't understand that behavior. He doesn't even like chicken!"

Molly felt her daughter moving enthusiastically inside her. "God lord, Sherlock, are any of the Holmes offspring calm and sedentary?"

"Mycroft's relatively sedentary now, Molly, but I suppose we'll have to wait until they are his age for that to happen. Anyway, at least we don't have a painted dog."

Molly looked over and sighed. She didn't even want to ask.


End file.
